Never Alone
by Sigel Phoenix
Summary: Aoshi contemplates Misao. Pure fluff.


Hey there! Having recently moved into FF.Net, I'm currently in the process of uploading all my old fics. This one was my first RuroKen fic (eek), written sometime in 2000. Please be forgiving. ^_^; 

Standard disclaimers apply. 

**Never Alone   
by Sigel Phoenix**

He wonders briefly just how the events in his life have led up to this moment. But it is not in human nature to ponder the steps leading to perfection. 

She lays beside him, wrapped in both his arms and the oblivion of pure contentment, her body nestled back against the curve of his own. He can feel her every breath, sense her very heartbeat. Her form is slight, nearly swallowed by his, but somehow he feels overwhelmed by her; that every part of him is touched, changed, completed by her presence. 

It is not in the nature of Shinomori Aoshi to be caught breathless. But he is. 

The moonlight washes a soft cover of ivory over her, accentuating the curves of her body, the delicate features of her face. Her countenance is almost childlike in sleep. It is the only time she still resembles one, though he had tried to maintain otherwise, not long before. The pale glow of her skin is contrasted sharply by her hair, now loose and a mass of tangled ebony poured into the small space between their bodies. 

It still fascinates him, the freed river of her hair, just as it did the first time he saw it undone. Shyly, Misao had untied her braid, and just as shyly, he had run his fingers through her obsidian locks. Hesitantly, they had both lowered their covers and barriers for one another. 

Her hair was only one of the many wonders of her he hadn't explored, and may never have, had she not been so determined. 

She had been carefully planning the pursuit, he realized, long before the actual catch. As she remained by his side during his healing and slow journey back to his friends of the Oniwabanshuu, she carefully wove her open, devoted presence into his life. Through apparently random comments, occasional touches, and simply by being there, she opened his mind to the acceptance, contentment, and even love he found in his home at the Aoiya. 

He sees now, how she bided her time, planned her actions. During that time, the issues separating them -- such as her age, his past mistakes -- disappeared, dulled or rendered obsolete by time. So when his reasons to deny her love were gone, he found that his defenses against that love were gone as well. 

She was not always so insightful, or patient. Long before, she once had enlisted Omasu's and Okon's aid in a most aggressive and -- at the time, it seemed -- surefire plan. They had adorned her in an elaborate kimono -- a bit too large, but covered by an expertly tied obi, though the hem still dragged a little on the ground -- pinned her hair up in an elegant style too old for her still-round features, and paint her face with all sorts of bold colors. Thus primed, she stood ready and waiting to receive Aoshi when he returned from the temple, surely to stun him with her beauty and elicit a heartfelt declaration of love on the spot. As it turned out, however, the moment he slid open the main door of the Aoiya, she ran to her room and hid, refusing to come out for the rest of the night. 

All this she revealed to him one day, long after the incident, with a laughing sheepishness. Such was Misao's nature, that she dealt with embarrassments and hurt by flinging them out into the open and ridding herself from the pressure of their hidden existence. He sometimes wished he could be as open, himself. 

There were different reasons for her sudden loss of confidence that night, they both knew. For one, she really was too young, back then, no matter how stringently she might have denied it. Her mind knew only the chase, and her lack of maturity left her unable to deal with her prey so close within her -- theoretical -- grasp. 

She also knew instinctively, as she would understand later, that it was the wrong tactic to take in getting him. She couldn't throw herself at him and expect him to do anything but run away. Instead, she ended up spending her time gently wrapping her arms around him, so that when he finally realized the danger and thought to escape, he found himself already comfortable in her embrace. 

Not that he never felt any fear, he thinks wryly. Cognizant as he was of her feelings, he was shocked when she finally cornered him, terrified when she kissed him, and knew only mind-numbing panic when she told him to stop running, because she wasn't going anywhere. 

All his carefully crafted defenses were useless, gently coaxed away by Misao herself. He was unable to act, to even think, for whenever he tried to collect his thoughts, he found himself only feeling. Feeling her soft lips covering his mouth, her warm hand on his cheek, her skin against his own. Her skin was like fire, threatening to melt the icy barrier around him, threatening to cast away the sheltering shadows he'd taken refuge in for so long -- threatening to do nothing more than give him a place to rest his weary heart. 

He doesn't know when he went from simply loving Misao to being in love with her, when she changed from being the Oniwabanshuu family's child to the woman at the center of his life. All he knows is that he needs her desperately -- her bright laugh, her open heart, her love -- to keep him sane, to keep him whole. 

He once considered it his responsibility as the Okashira of the Oniwabanshuu to ensure the welfare of his men; now it is his duty and honor as a man to ensure the happiness of this one woman. 

His arms tighten unconsciously around her, seeking to confirm and protect. She stirs in his hold, waking and turning to him with sleepy questioning. Softly he kisses her, giving her reassurance and seeking his own, and ushers her back to sleep. 

He tries to relax, to assure himself that he does indeed have this happiness, that he does deserve it, and that it won't disappear. He did much the same the first time she fell asleep in his arms -- wary and fearful was he of sleep, lest someone come and snatch his love from him under the cloak of night. 

In the morning he watched with growing wonder as the angel beside him did not fade with the fog of sleep, a cruel illusion from his dreaming mind. She was there, and she was real. 

Misao, on the other hand, seemed to have no such fears on her mind. She woke up, took one look at the man beneath her and her own self, woefully underclothed in only a sleeping yukata, and promptly flushed a flaming red from her neck to her hairline. Somewhat discomfited by her response, he nonetheless took pity on her when it seemed her head might explode from the pressure of the blood rushing to her face. He hastily reassured her of the innocence of their sleeping arrangement, though he had to admit it seemed strange and almost inaccurate to be holding a woman who had professed her love for him, then fallen asleep in his arms, and tell her that 'nothing' had happened. 

He lays his forehead against the back of her neck, and wonders if it will ever seem anything less than miraculous that she is there with him. The scent of her hair intoxicates him, the warmth of her skin engulfs his senses. Her presence is so overwhelmingly vivid, it seems she has to be some sort of illusion. 

He runs his fingertips down the curve of her side, relishing the simple touch. At a young age he had learned to seal away his emotions, to reject happiness and protect himself from pain. Only now has he found himself free to embrace his feelings, though he still quails at sharing them openly. The lock on his inner self is so tight that he even shies away from opening up completely to Misao herself, at least in words. It is only when she sleeps that he feels totally comfortable, that he can hold her as close as he wants and whisper all his love into her ear. 

He wants to do more. He wants to touch her openly and say he loves her out loud and kiss her for no reason, just to see the delight light her face at his openness. But she understands his fears, the years of building protective walls around his heart that prevent that. She understands, for now, that when she tells him she loves him, he can respond only by holding her as tightly as he can. 

He swears to himself that he will make it up to her, someday when he can. For now, he will love her as he is able. 

She has given him everything. Brushing her hair back, he murmurs as much against her ear. 

"You have trusted me, welcomed me, and loved me, even when I did not deserve it. You waited for me then, and you still wait for me now." He slides his arm securely around her waist, plants a kiss at the junction of her neck and shoulder. She is his, and he is, wholeheartedly, hers. 

"I can't do anything in return, but stay with you and try to make you happy. But I will do it for the rest of my life. I promise." 

He tells her in her sleep. And in her sleep, she smiles. 


End file.
